BRET HARTE: FORTY NOVELETTES & SHORT STORIES. Tennessee's Partner, The Tales of the Argonauts, and many more. (Timeless Wisdom Collection Book 5830)

Tales of the Argonauts

The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Tales

Tales of Trail and Town

The Argonauts of North Liberty

Tales of the Argonauts (Dodo Press)

Urban Sketches

French and English fluently. In brief, I doubt if you could havefound the equal of this Pagan shopkeeper among the Christiantraders of San Francisco.

There were a few others present,--a judge of the Federal Court, aneditor, a high government official, and a prominent merchant.After we had drunk our tea, and tasted a few sweetmeats from amysterious jar, that looked as if it might contain a preservedmouse among its other nondescript treasures, Hop Sing arose, and,gravely beckoning us to follow him, began to descend to thebasement. When we got there, we were amazed at finding itbrilliantly lighted, and that a number of chairs were arranged in ahalf-circle on the asphalt pavement. When he had courteouslyseated us, he said,--

"I have invited you to witness a performance which I can at leastpromise you no other foreigners but yourselves have ever seen.Wang, the court-juggler, arrived here yesterday morning. He hasnever given a performance outside of the palace before. I haveasked him to entertain my friends this evening. He requires notheatre, stage accessories, or any confederate,--nothing more thanyou see here. Will you be pleased to examine the groundyourselves, gentlemen."

Of course we examined the premises. It was the ordinary basementor cellar of the San Francisco storehouse, cemented to keep out thedamp. We poked our sticks into the pavement, and rapped on thewalls, to satisfy our polite host--but for no other purpose. Wewere quite content to be the victims of any clever deception. Formyself, I knew I was ready to be deluded to any extent, and, if Ihad been offered an explanation of what followed, I should haveprobably declined it.

Although I am satisfied that Wang's general performance was thefirst of that kind ever given on American soil, it has, probably,since become so familiar to many of my readers, that I shall notbore them with it here. He began by setting to flight, with theaid of his fan, the usual number of butterflies, made before oureyes of little bits of tissue-paper, and kept them in the airduring the remainder of the performance. I have a vividrecollection of the judge trying to catch one that had lit on hisknee, and of its evading him with the pertinacity of a livinginsect. And, even at this time, Wang, still plying his fan, wastaking chickens out of hats, making oranges disappear, pullingendless yards of silk from his sleeve, apparently filling the wholearea of the basement with goods that appeared mysteriously from theground, from his own sleeves, from nowhere! He swallowed knives tothe ruin of his digestion for years to come; he dislocated everylimb of his body; he reclined in the air, apparently upon nothing.But his crowning performance, which I have never yet seen repeated,was the most weird, mysterious, and astounding. It is my apologyfor this long introduction, my sole excuse for writing thisarticle, and the genesis of this veracious history.

He cleared the ground of its encumbering articles for a space ofabout fifteen feet square, and then invited us all to walk forward,and again examine it. We did so gravely. There was nothing butthe cemented pavement below to be seen or felt. He then asked forthe loan of a handkerchief; and, as I chanced to be nearest him, Ioffered mine. He took it, and spread it open upon the floor. Overthis he spread a large square of silk, and over this, again, alarge shawl nearly covering the space he had cleared. He then tooka position at one of the points of this rectangle, and began amonotonous chant, rocking his body to and fro in time with thesomewhat lugubrious air.

We sat still and waited. Above the chant we could hear thestriking of the city clocks, and the occasional rattle of a cart inthe street overhead. The absolute watchfulness and expectation,the dim, mysterious half-light of the cellar falling in a grewsomeway upon the misshapen bulk of a Chinese deity in the back ground,a faint smell of opium-smoke mingling with spice, and the dreadfuluncertainty of what we were really waiting for, sent an uncomfortablethrill down our backs, and made us look at each other with a forcedand unnatural smile. This feeling was heightened when Hop Singslowly rose, and, without a word, pointed with his finger to thecentre of the shawl.

There was something beneath the shawl. Surely--and something thatwas not there before; at first a mere suggestion in relief, a faintoutline, but growing more and more distinct and visible everymoment. The chant still continued; the perspiration began to rollfrom the singer's face; gradually the hidden object took uponitself a shape and bulk that raised the shawl in its centre somefive or six inches. It was now unmistakably the outline of a smallbut perfect human figure, with extended arms and legs. One or twoof us turned pale. There was a feeling of general uneasiness,until the editor broke the silence by a gibe, that, poor as it was,was received with spontaneous enthusiasm. Then the chant suddenlyceased. Wang arose, and with a quick, dexterous movement, strippedboth shawl and silk away, and discovered, sleeping peacefully uponmy handkerchief, a tiny Chinese baby.

The applause and uproar which followed this revelation ought tohave satisfied Wang, even if his audience was a small one: it wasloud enough to awaken the baby,--a pretty little boy about a yearold, looking like a Cupid cut out of sandal-wood. He was whiskedaway almost as mysteriously as he appeared. When Hop Sing returnedmy handkerchief to me with a bow, I asked if the juggler was thefather of the baby. "No sabe!" said the imperturbable Hop Sing,taking refuge in that Spanish form of non-committalism so common inCalifornia.

"But does he have a new baby for every performance?" I asked."Perhaps: who knows?"--"But what will become of this one?"--"Whatever you choose, gentlemen," replied Hop Sing with a courteousinclination. "It was born here: you are its godfathers."

There were two characteristic peculiarities of any Californianassemblage in 1856,--it was quick to take a hint, and generous tothe point of prodigality in its response to any charitable appeal.No matter how sordid or avaricious the individual, he could notresist the infection of sympathy. I doubled the points of myhandkerchief into a bag, dropped a coin into it, and, without aword, passed it to the judge. He quietly added a twenty-dollargold-piece, and passed it to the next. When it was returned to me,it contained over a hundred dollars. I knotted the money in thehandkerchief, and gave it to Hop Sing.

"For the baby, from its godfathers."

"But what name?" said the judge. There was a running fire of"Erebus," "Nox," "Plutus," "Terra Cotta," "Antaeus," &c. Finallythe question was referred to our host.

"Why not keep his own name?" he said quietly,--"Wan Lee." And hedid.

And thus was Wan Lee, on the night of Friday, the 5th of March,1856, born into this veracious chronicle.

The last form of "The Northern Star" for the 19th of July, 1865,--the only daily paper published in Klamath County,--had just gone topress; and at three, A.M., I was putting aside my proofs andmanuscripts, preparatory to going home, when I discovered a letterlying under some sheets of paper, which I must have overlooked.The envelope was considerably soiled: it had no post-mark; but Ihad no difficulty in recognizing the hand of my friend Hop Sing. Iopened it hurriedly, and read as follows:--

"MY DEAR SIR,--I do not know whether the bearer will suit you; but,unless the office of 'devil' in your newspaper is a purelytechnical one, I think he has all the qualities required. He isvery quick, active, and intelligent; understands English betterthan he speaks it; and makes up for any defect by his habits ofobservation and imitation. You have only to show him how to do athing once, and he will repeat it, whether it is an offence or avirtue. But you certainly know him already. You are one of hisgodfathers; for is he not Wan Lee, the reputed son of Wang theconjurer, to whose performances I had the honor to introduce you?But perhaps you have forgotten it.

"I shall send him with a gang of coolies to Stockton, thence byexpress to your town. If you can use him there, you will do me afavor, and probably save his life, which is at present in greatperil from the hands of the younger members of your Christian andhighly-civilized race who attend the enlightened schools in SanFrancisco.

"He has acquired some singular habits and customs from his experienceof Wang's profession, which he followed for some years,--until hebecame too large to go in a hat, or be produced from his father'ssleeve. The money you left with me has been expended on hiseducation. He has gone through the Tri-literal Classics, but, Ithink, without much benefit. He knows but little of Confucius, andabsolutely nothing of Mencius. Owing to the negligence of hisfather, he associated, perhaps, too much with American children.

"I should have answered your letter before, by post; but I thoughtthat Wan Lee himself would be a better messenger for this.

"Yours respectfully,

"HOP SING."

And this was the long-delayed answer to my letter to Hop Sing. Butwhere was "the bearer"? How was the letter delivered? I summonedhastily the foreman, printers, and office-boy, but withouteliciting any thing. No one had seen the letter delivered, norknew any thing of the bearer. A few days later, I had a visit frommy laundry-man, Ah Ri.

"You wantee debbil? All lightee: me catchee him."

He returned in a few moments with a bright-looking Chinese boy,about ten years old, with whose appearance and general intelligenceI was so greatly impressed, that I engaged him on the spot. Whenthe business was concluded, I asked his name.

"Wan Lee," said the boy.

"What! Are you the boy sent out by Hop Sing? What the devil doyou mean by not coming here before? and how did you deliver thatletter?"

Wan Lee looked at me, and laughed. "Me pitchee in top sidewindow."

I did not understand. He looked for a moment perplexed, and then,snatching the letter out of my hand, ran down the stairs. After amoment's pause, to my great astonishment, the letter came flying inthe window, circled twice around the room, and then dropped gently,like a bird upon my table. Before I had got over my surprise, WanLee re-appeared, smiled, looked at the letter and then at me, said,"So, John," and then remained gravely silent. I said nothingfurther; but it was understood that this was his first officialact.

His next performance, I grieve to say, was not attended with equalsuccess. One of our regular paper-carriers fell sick, and, at apinch, Wan Lee was ordered to fill his place. To prevent mistakes,he was shown over the route the previous evening, and supplied atabout daylight with the usual number of subscribers' copies. Hereturned, after an hour, in good spirits, and without the papers.He had delivered them all, he said.

Unfortunately for Wan Lee, at about eight o'clock, indignantsubscribers began to arrive at the office. They had received theircopies; but how? In the form of hard-pressed cannon-balls,delivered by a single shot, and a mere tour de force, through theglass of bedroom-windows. They had received them full in the face,like a base ball, if they happened to be up and stirring; they hadreceived them in quarter-sheets, tucked in at separate windows;they had found them in the chimney, pinned against the door, shotthrough attic-windows, delivered in long slips through convenientkeyholes, stuffed into ventilators, and occupying the same can withthe morning's milk. One subscriber, who waited for some time atthe office-door to have a personal interview with Wan Lee (thencomfortably locked in my bedroom), told me, with tears of rage inhis eyes, that he had been awakened at five o'clock by a mosthideous yelling below his windows; that, on rising in greatagitation, he was startled by the sudden appearance of "TheNorthern Star," rolled hard, and bent into the form of a boomerang,or East-Indian club, that sailed into the window, described anumber of fiendish circles in the room, knocked over the light,slapped the baby's face, "took" him (the subscriber) "in the jaw,"and then returned out of the window, and dropped helplessly in thearea. During the rest of the day, wads and strips of soiled paper,purporting to be copies of "The Northern Star" of that morning'sissue, were brought indignantly to the office. An admirableeditorial on "The Resources of Humboldt County," which I hadconstructed the evening before, and which, I had reason to believe,might have changed the whole balance of trade during the ensuingyear, and left San Francisco bankrupt at her wharves, was in thisway lost to the public.

It was deemed advisable for the next three weeks to keep Wan Leeclosely confined to the printing-office, and the purely mechanicalpart of the business. Here he developed a surprising quickness andadaptability, winning even the favor and good will of the printersand foreman, who at first looked upon his introduction into thesecrets of their trade as fraught with the gravest politicalsignificance. He learned to set type readily and neatly, hiswonderful skill in manipulation aiding him in the mere mechanicalact, and his ignorance of the language confining him simply to themechanical effort, confirming the printer's axiom, that the printerwho considers or follows the ideas of his copy makes a poorcompositor. He would set up deliberately long diatribes againsthimself, composed by his fellow-printers, and hung on his hook ascopy, and even such short sentences as "Wan Lee is the devil's ownimp," "Wan Lee is a Mongolian rascal," and bring the proof to mewith happiness beaming from every tooth, and satisfaction shiningin his huckleberry eyes.

It was not long, however, before he learned to retaliate on hismischievous persecutors. I remember one instance in which hisreprisal came very near involving me in a serious misunderstanding.Our foreman's name was Webster; and Wan Lee presently learned toknow and recognize the individual and combined letters of his name.It was during a political campaign; and the eloquent and fiery Col.Starbottle of Siskyou had delivered an effective speech, which wasreported especially for "The Northern Star." In a very sublimeperoration, Col. Starbottle had said, "In the language of thegodlike Webster, I repeat"--and here followed the quotation, whichI have forgotten. Now, it chanced that Wan Lee, looking over thegalley after it had been revised, saw the name of his chiefpersecutor, and, of course, imagined the quotation his. After theform was locked up, Wan Lee took advantage of Webster's absence toremove the quotation, and substitute a thin piece of lead, of thesame size as the type, engraved with Chinese characters, making asentence, which, I had reason to believe, was an utter and abjectconfession of the incapacity and offensiveness of the Websterfamily generally, and exceedingly eulogistic of Wan Lee himselfpersonally.

The next morning's paper contained Col. Starbottle's speech infull, in which it appeared that the "godlike" Webster had, on oneoccasion, uttered his thoughts in excellent but perfectlyenigmatical Chinese. The rage of Col. Starbottle knew no bounds.I have a vivid recollection of that admirable man walking into myoffice, and demanding a retraction of the statement.

"But my dear sir," I asked, "are you willing to deny, over your ownsignature, that Webster ever uttered such a sentence? Dare youdeny, that, with Mr. Webster's well-known attainments, a knowledgeof Chinese might not have been among the number? Are you willingto submit a translation suitable to the capacity of our readers,and deny, upon your honor as a gentleman, that the late Mr. Websterever uttered such a sentiment? If you are, sir, I am willing topublish your denial."

The colonel was not, and left, highly indignant.

Webster, the foreman, took it more coolly. Happily, he wasunaware, that, for two days after, Chinamen from the laundries,from the gulches, from the kitchens, looked in the front office-door, with faces beaming with sardonic delight; that three hundredextra copies of the "Star" were ordered for the wash-houses on theriver. He only knew, that, during the day, Wan Lee occasionallywent off into convulsive spasms, and that he was obliged to kickhim into consciousness again. A week after the occurrence, Icalled Wan Lee into my office.

"Wan," I said gravely, "I should like you to give me, for my ownpersonal satisfaction, a translation of that Chinese sentence whichmy gifted countryman, the late godlike Webster, uttered upon apublic occasion." Wan Lee looked at me intently, and then theslightest possible twinkle crept into his black eyes. Then hereplied with equal gravity,--

But I fear I am giving but one side, and not the best, of Wan Lee'scharacter. As he imparted it to me, his had been a hard life. Hehad known scarcely any childhood: he had no recollection of afather or mother. The conjurer Wang had brought him up. He hadspent the first seven years of his life in appearing from baskets,in dropping out of hats, in climbing ladders, in putting his littlelimbs out of joint in posturing. He had lived in an atmosphere oftrickery and deception. He had learned to look upon mankind asdupes of their senses: in fine, if he had thought at all, he wouldhave been a sceptic; if he had been a little older, he would havebeen a cynic; if he had been older still, he would have been aphilosopher. As it was, he was a little imp. A good-natured impit was, too,--an imp whose moral nature had never been awakened,--an imp up for a holiday, and willing to try virtue as a diversion.I don't know that he had any spiritual nature. He was verysuperstitious. He carried about with him a hideous littleporcelain god, which he was in the habit of alternately revilingand propitiating. He was too intelligent for the commoner Chinesevices of stealing or gratuitous lying. Whatever discipline hepractised was taught by his intellect.

I am inclined to think that his feelings were not altogetherunimpressible, although it was almost impossible to extract anexpression from him; and I conscientiously believe he becameattached to those that were good to him. What he might have becomeunder more favorable conditions than the bondsman of an overworked,under-paid literary man, I don't know: I only know that the scant,irregular, impulsive kindnesses that I showed him were gratefullyreceived. He was very loyal and patient, two qualities rare in theaverage American servant. He was like Malvolio, "sad and civil"with me. Only once, and then under great provocation, do Iremember of his exhibiting any impatience. It was my habit, afterleaving the office at night, to take him with me to my rooms, asthe bearer of any supplemental or happy after-thought, in theeditorial way, that might occur to me before the paper went topress. One night I had been scribbling away past the usual hour ofdismissing Wan Lee, and had become quite oblivious of his presencein a chair near my door, when suddenly I became aware of a voicesaying in plaintive accents, something that sounded like "Chy Lee."

I faced around sternly.

"What did you say?"

"Me say, 'Chy Lee.'"

"Well?" I said impatiently.

"You sabe, 'How do, John?'"

"Yes."

"You sabe, 'So long, John'?"

"Yes."

"Well, 'Chy Lee' allee same!"

I understood him quite plainly. It appeared that "Chy Lee" was aform of "good-night," and that Wan Lee was anxious to go home. Butan instinct of mischief, which, I fear, I possessed in common withhim, impelled me to act as if oblivious of the hint. I mutteredsomething about not understanding him, and again bent over my work.In a few minutes I heard his wooden shoes pattering patheticallyover the floor. I looked up. He was standing near the door.

"You no sabe, 'Chy Lee'?"

"No," I said sternly.

"You sabe muchee big foolee! allee same!"

And, with this audacity upon his lips, he fled. The next morning,however, he was as meek and patient as before, and I did not recallhis offence. As a probable peace-offering, he blacked all myboots,--a duty never required of him,--including a pair of buffdeer-skin slippers and an immense pair of horseman's jack-boots, onwhich he indulged his remorse for two hours.

I have spoken of his honesty as being a quality of his intellectrather than his principle, but I recall about this time twoexceptions to the rule. I was anxious to get some fresh eggs as achange to the heavy diet of a mining-town; and, knowing that WanLee's countrymen were great poultry-raisers, I applied to him. Hefurnished me with them regularly every morning, but refused to takeany pay, saying that the man did not sell them,--a remarkableinstance of self-abnegation, as eggs were then worth half a dollarapiece. One morning my neighbor Forster dropped in upon me atbreakfast, and took occasion to bewail his own ill fortune, as hishens had lately stopped laying, or wandered off in the bush.Wan Lee, who was present during our colloquy, preserved hischaracteristic sad taciturnity. When my neighbor had gone, heturned to me with a slight chuckle: "Flostel's hens--Wan Lee's hensallee same!" His other offence was more serious and ambitious. Itwas a season of great irregularities in the mails, and Wan Lee hadheard me deplore the delay in the delivery of my letters andnewspapers. On arriving at my office one day, I was amazed to findmy table covered with letters, evidently just from the post-office,but, unfortunately, not one addressed to me. I turned to Wan Lee,who was surveying them with a calm satisfaction, and demanded anexplanation. To my horror he pointed to an empty mail-bag in thecorner, and said, "Postman he say, 'No lettee, John; no lettee,John.' Postman plentee lie! Postman no good. Me catchee letteelast night allee same!" Luckily it was still early: the mails hadnot been distributed. I had a hurried interview with thepostmaster; and Wan Lee's bold attempt at robbing the United Statesmail was finally condoned by the purchase of a new mail-bag, andthe whole affair thus kept a secret.

If my liking for my little Pagan page had not been sufficient, myduty to Hop Sing was enough, to cause me to take Wan Lee with mewhen I returned to San Francisco after my two years' experiencewith "The Northern Star." I do not think he contemplated thechange with pleasure. I attributed his feelings to a nervous dreadof crowded public streets (when he had to go across town for me onan errand, he always made a circuit of the outskirts), to hisdislike for the discipline of the Chinese and English school towhich I proposed to send him, to his fondness for the free, vagrantlife of the mines, to sheer wilfulness. That it might have been asuperstitious premonition did not occur to me until long after.

Nevertheless it really seemed as if the opportunity I had longlooked for and confidently expected had come,--the opportunity ofplacing Wan Lee under gently restraining influences, of subjectinghim to a life and experience that would draw out of him what goodmy superficial care and ill-regulated kindness could not reach.Wan Lee was placed at the school of a Chinese missionary,--anintelligent and kind-hearted clergyman, who had shown greatinterest in the boy, and who, better than all, had a wonderfulfaith in him. A home was found for him in the family of a widow,who had a bright and interesting daughter about two years youngerthan Wan Lee. It was this bright, cheery, innocent, and artlesschild that touched and reached a depth in the boy's nature thathitherto had been unsuspected; that awakened a moral susceptibilitywhich had lain for years insensible alike to the teachings ofsociety, or the ethics of the theologian.

These few brief months--bright with a promise that we never sawfulfilled--must have been happy ones to Wan Lee. He worshipped hislittle friend with something of the same superstition, but withoutany of the caprice, that he bestowed upon his porcelain Pagan god.It was his delight to walk behind her to school, carrying herbooks--a service always fraught with danger to him from the littlehands of his Caucasian Christian brothers. He made her the mostmarvellous toys; he would cut out of carrots and turnips the mostastonishing roses and tulips; he made life-like chickens out ofmelon-seeds; he constructed fans and kites, and was singularlyproficient in the making of dolls' paper dresses. On the otherhand, she played and sang to him, taught him a thousand littleprettinesses and refinements only known to girls, gave him a yellowribbon for his pig-tail, as best suiting his complexion, read tohim, showed him wherein he was original and valuable, took him toSunday school with her, against the precedents of the school, and,small-woman-like, triumphed. I wish I could add here, that sheeffected his conversion, and made him give up his porcelain idol.But I am telling a true story; and this little girl was quitecontent to fill him with her own Christian goodness, withoutletting him know that he was changed. So they got along very welltogether,--this little Christian girl with her shining crosshanging around her plump, white little neck; and this dark littlePagan, with his hideous porcelain god hidden away in his blouse.

There were two days of that eventful year which will long beremembered in San Francisco,--two days when a mob of her citizensset upon and killed unarmed, defenceless foreigners because theywere foreigners, and of another race, religion, and color, andworked for what wages they could get. There were some public menso timid, that, seeing this, they thought that the end of the worldhad come. There were some eminent statesmen, whose names I amashamed to write here, who began to think that the passage in theConstitution which guarantees civil and religious liberty to everycitizen or foreigner was a mistake. But there were, also, some menwho were not so easily frightened; and in twenty-four hours we hadthings so arranged, that the timid men could wring their hands insafety, and the eminent statesmen utter their doubts withouthurting any body or any thing. And in the midst of this I got anote from Hop Sing, asking me to come to him immediately.

I found his warehouse closed, and strongly guarded by the policeagainst any possible attack of the rioters. Hop Sing admitted methrough a barred grating with his usual imperturbable calm, but, asit seemed to me, with more than his usual seriousness. Without aword, he took my hand, and led me to the rear of the room, andthence down stairs into the basement. It was dimly lighted; butthere was something lying on the floor covered by a shawl. As Iapproached he drew the shawl away with a sudden gesture, andrevealed Wan Lee, the Pagan, lying there dead.

Dead, my reverend friends, dead,--stoned to death in the streets ofSan Francisco, in the year of grace 1869, by a mob of half-grownboys and Christian school-children!

As I put my hand reverently upon his breast, I felt somethingcrumbling beneath his blouse. I looked inquiringly at Hop Sing.He put his hand between the folds of silk, and drew out somethingwith the first bitter smile I had ever seen on the face of thatPagan gentleman.

It was Wan Lee's porcelain god, crushed by a stone from the handsof those Christian iconoclasts!

HOW OLD MAN PLUNKETT WENT HOME

I think we all loved him. Even after he mismanaged the affairs ofthe Amity Ditch Company, we commiserated him, although most of uswere stockholders, and lost heavily. I remember that theblacksmith went so far as to say that "them chaps as put thatresponsibility on the old man oughter be lynched." But theblacksmith was not a stockholder; and the expression was lookedupon as the excusable extravagance of a large, sympathizing nature,that, when combined with a powerful frame, was unworthy of notice.At least, that was the way they put it. Yet I think there was ageneral feeling of regret that this misfortune would interfere withthe old man's long-cherished plan of "going home."

Indeed, for the last ten years he had been "going home." He wasgoing home after a six-months' sojourn at Monte Flat; he was goinghome after the first rains; he was going home when the rains wereover; he was going home when he had cut the timber on Buckeye Hill,when there was pasture on Dow's Flat, when he struck pay-dirt onEureka Hill, when the Amity Company paid its first dividend, whenthe election was over, when he had received an answer from hiswife. And so the years rolled by, the spring rains came and went,the woods of Buckeye Hill were level with the ground, the pastureon Dow's Flat grew sear and dry, Eureka Hill yielded its pay-dirtand swamped its owner, the first dividends of the Amity Companywere made from the assessments of stockholders, there were newcounty officers at Monte Flat, his wife's answer had changed into apersistent question, and still old man Plunkett remained.

It is only fair to say that he had made several distinct essaystoward going. Five years before, he had bidden good-by to MonteHill with much effusion and hand-shaking. But he never got anyfarther than the next town. Here he was induced to trade thesorrel colt he was riding for a bay mare,--a transaction that atonce opened to his lively fancy a vista of vast and successfulfuture speculation. A few days after, Abner Dean of Angel'sreceived a letter from him, stating that he was going to Visalia tobuy horses. "I am satisfied," wrote Plunkett, with that elevatedrhetoric for which his correspondence was remarkable,--"I amsatisfied that we are at last developing the real resources ofCalifornia. The world will yet look to Dow's Flat as the greatstock-raising centre. In view of the interests involved, I havedeferred my departure for a month." It was two before he againreturned to us--penniless. Six months later, he was again enabledto start for the Eastern States; and this time he got as far as SanFrancisco. I have before me a letter which I received a few daysafter his arrival, from which I venture to give an extract: "Youknow, my dear boy, that I have always believed that gambling, as itis absurdly called, is still in its infancy in California. I havealways maintained that a perfect system might be invented, by whichthe game of poker may be made to yield a certain percentage to theintelligent player. I am not at liberty at present to disclose thesystem; but before leaving this city I intend to perfect it." Heseems to have done so, and returned to Monte Flat with two dollarsand thirty-seven cents, the absolute remainder of his capital aftersuch perfection.

It was not until 1868 that he appeared to have finally succeeded ingoing home. He left us by the overland route,--a route which hedeclared would give great opportunity for the discovery ofundeveloped resources. His last letter was dated Virginia City.He was absent three years. At the close of a very hot day inmidsummer, he alighted from the Wingdam stage, with hair and beardpowdered with dust and age. There was a certain shyness about hisgreeting, quite different from his usual frank volubility, that didnot, however, impress us as any accession of character. For somedays he was reserved regarding his recent visit, contenting himselfwith asserting, with more or less aggressiveness, that he had"always said he was going home, and now he had been there." Laterhe grew more communicative, and spoke freely and critically of themanners and customs of New York and Boston, commented on the socialchanges in the years of his absence, and, I remember, was very hardupon what he deemed the follies incidental to a high state ofcivilization. Still later he darkly alluded to the moral laxity ofthe higher planes of Eastern society; but it was not long before hecompletely tore away the veil, and revealed the naked wickedness ofNew York social life in a way I even now shudder to recall. Vinousintoxication, it appeared, was a common habit of the first ladiesof the city. Immoralities which he scarcely dared name were dailypractised by the refined of both sexes. Niggardliness and greedwere the common vices of the rich. "I have always asserted," hecontinued, "that corruption must exist where luxury and riches arerampant, and capital is not used to develop the natural resourcesof the country. Thank you--I will take mine without sugar." It ispossible that some of these painful details crept into the localjournals. I remember an editorial in "The Monte Flat Monitor,"entitled "The Effete East," in which the fatal decadence of NewYork and New England was elaborately stated, and California offeredas a means of natural salvation. "Perhaps," said "The Monitor,""we might add that Calaveras County offers superior inducements tothe Eastern visitor with capital."

Later he spoke of his family. The daughter he had left a child hadgrown into beautiful womanhood. The son was already taller andlarger than his father; and, in a playful trial of strength, "theyoung rascal," added Plunkett, with a voice broken with paternalpride and humorous objurgation, had twice thrown his doting parentto the ground. But it was of his daughter he chiefly spoke.Perhaps emboldened by the evident interest which masculine MonteFlat held in feminine beauty, he expatiated at some length on hervarious charms and accomplishments, and finally produced herphotograph,--that of a very pretty girl,--to their infinite peril.But his account of his first meeting with her was so peculiar, thatI must fain give it after his own methods, which were, perhaps,some shades less precise and elegant than his written style.

"You see, boys, it's always been my opinion that a man oughter beable to tell his own flesh and blood by instinct. It's ten yearssince I'd seen my Melindy; and she was then only seven, and aboutso high. So, when I went to New York, what did I do? Did I gostraight to my house, and ask for my wife and daughter, like otherfolks? No, sir! I rigged myself up as a peddler, as a peddler,sir; and I rung the bell. When the servant came to the door, Iwanted--don't you see?--to show the ladies some trinkets. Thenthere was a voice over the banister says, 'Don't want any thing:send him away.'--'Some nice laces, ma'am, smuggled,' I says,looking up. 'Get out, you wretch!' says she. I knew the voice,boys: it was my wife, sure as a gun. Thar wasn't any instinctthar. 'Maybe the young ladies want somethin',' I said. 'Did youhear me?' says she; and with that she jumps forward, and I left.It's ten years, boys, since I've seen the old woman; but somehow,when she fetched that leap, I naterally left."

He had been standing beside the bar--his usual attitude--when hemade this speech; but at this point he half faced his auditors witha look that was very effective. Indeed, a few who had exhibitedsome signs of scepticism and lack of interest, at once assumed anappearance of intense gratification and curiosity as he went on,--

"Well, by hangin round there for a day or two, I found out at lastit was to be Melindy's birthday next week, and that she was goin'to have a big party. I tell ye what, boys, it weren't no slouch ofa reception. The whole house was bloomin' with flowers, andblazin' with lights; and there was no end of servants and plate andrefreshments and fixin's"--

"Uncle Joe."

"Well?"

"Where did they get the money?"

Plunkett faced his interlocutor with a severe glance. "I alwayssaid," he replied slowly, "that, when I went home, I'd send onahead of me a draft for ten thousand dollars. I always said that,didn't I? Eh? And I said I was goin' home--and I've been home,haven't I? Well?"

Either there was something irresistibly conclusive in this logic,or else the desire to hear the remainder of Plunkett's story wasstronger; but there was no more interruption. His ready good-humorquickly returned, and, with a slight chuckle, he went on,--

"I went to the biggest jewelry shop in town, and I bought a pair ofdiamond ear-rings, and put them in my pocket, and went to thehouse. 'What name?' says the chap who opened the door; and helooked like a cross 'twixt a restaurant waiter and a parson.'Skeesicks,' said I. He takes me in; and pretty soon my wife comessailin' into the parlor, and says, 'Excuse me; but I don't think Irecognize the name.' She was mighty polite; for I had on a red wigand side-whiskers. 'A friend of your husband's from California,ma'am, with a present for your daughter, Miss--,' and I made as Ihad forgot the name. But all of a sudden a voice said, 'That's toothin;' and in walked Melindy. 'It's playin' it rather low down,father, to pretend you don't know your daughter's name; ain't it,now? How are you, old man?' And with that she tears off my wigand whiskers, and throws her arms around my neck--instinct, sir,pure instinct!"

Emboldened by the laughter which followed his description of thefilial utterances of Melinda, he again repeated her speech, withmore or less elaboration, joining in with, and indeed oftenleading, the hilarity that accompanied it, and returning to it,with more or less incoherency, several times during the evening.

And so, at various times and at various places, but chiefly in bar-rooms, did this Ulysses of Monte Flat recount the story of hiswanderings. There were several discrepancies in his statement;there was sometimes considerable prolixity of detail; there wasoccasional change of character and scenery; there was once or twicean absolute change in the denoument: but always the fact of hishaving visited his wife and children remained. Of course, in asceptical community like that of Monte Flat,--a communityaccustomed to great expectation and small realization,--a communitywherein, to use the local dialect, "they got the color, and struckhardpan," more frequently than any other mining-camp,--in such acommunity, the fullest credence was not given to old man Plunkett'sfacts. There was only one exception to the general unbelief,--Henry York of Sandy Bar. It was he who was always an attentivelistener; it was his scant purse that had often furnished Plunkettwith means to pursue his unprofitable speculations; it was to himthat the charms of Melinda were more frequently rehearsed; it washe that had borrowed her photograph; and it was he that, sittingalone in his little cabin one night, kissed that photograph, untilhis honest, handsome face glowed again in the firelight.

It was dusty in Monte Flat. The ruins of the long dry season werecrumbling everywhere: everywhere the dying summer had strewn itsred ashes a foot deep, or exhaled its last breath in a red cloudabove the troubled highways. The alders and cottonwoods, thatmarked the line of the water-courses, were grimy with dust, andlooked as if they might have taken root in the open air. Thegleaming stones of the parched water-courses themselves were as drybones in the valley of death. The dusty sunset at times paintedthe flanks of the distant hills a dull, coppery hue: on other days,there was an odd, indefinable earthquake halo on the volcanic conesof the farther coast-spurs. Again an acrid, resinous smoke fromthe burning wood on Heavytree Hill smarted the eyes, and choked thefree breath of Monte Flat; or a fierce wind, driving every thing,including the shrivelled summer, like a curled leaf before it,swept down the flanks of the Sierras, and chased the inhabitants tothe doors of their cabins, and shook its red fist in at theirwindows. And on such a night as this, the dust having in some waychoked the wheels of material progress in Monte Flat, most of theinhabitants were gathered listlessly in the gilded bar-room of theMoquelumne Hotel, spitting silently at the red-hot stove thattempered the mountain winds to the shorn lambs of Monte Flat, andwaiting for the rain.

Every method known to the Flat of beguiling the time until theadvent of this long-looked-for phenomenon had been tried. It istrue, the methods were not many, being limited chiefly to that formof popular facetiae known as practical joking; and even this hadassumed the seriousness of a business-pursuit. Tommy Roy, who hadspent two hours in digging a ditch in front of his own door, intowhich a few friends casually dropped during the evening, lookedennuye and dissatisfied. The four prominent citizens, who,disguised as foot-pads, had stopped the county treasurer on theWingdam road, were jaded from their playful efforts next morning.The principal physician and lawyer of Monte Flat, who had enteredinto an unhallowed conspiracy to compel the sheriff of Calaverasand his posse to serve a writ of ejectment on a grizzly bear,feebly disguised under the name of one "Major Ursus," who hauntedthe groves of Heavytree Hill, wore an expression of resignedweariness. Even the editor of "The Monte Flat Monitor," who hadthat morning written a glowing account of a battle with the WipneckIndians, for the benefit of Eastern readers,--even HE looked graveand worn. When, at last, Abner Dean of Angel's, who had been on avisit to San Francisco, walked into the room, he was, of course,victimized in the usual way by one or two apparently honestquestions, which ended in his answering them, and then falling intothe trap of asking another, to his utter and complete shame andmortification; but that was all. Nobody laughed; and Abner,although a victim, did not lose his good-humor. He turned quietlyon his tormentors, and said,--

"I've got something better than that--you know old man Plunkett?"

Everybody simultaneously spat at the stove, and nodded his head.

"You know he went home three years ago?" Two or three changed theposition of their legs from the backs of different chairs; and oneman said, "Yes."

"Had a good time, home?"

Everybody looked cautiously at the man who had said, "Yes;" and he,accepting the responsibility with a faint-hearted smile, said,"Yes," again, and breathed hard. "Saw his wife and child--purtygal?" said Abner cautiously. "Yes," answered the man doggedly."Saw her photograph, perhaps?" continued Abner Dean quietly.

The man looked hopelessly around for support. Two or three, whohad been sitting near him, and evidently encouraging him with alook of interest, now shamelessly abandoned him and looked anotherway. Henry York flushed a little, and veiled his gray eyes. Theman hesitated, and then with a sickly smile, that was intended toconvey the fact that he was perfectly aware of the object of thisquestioning, and was only humoring it from abstract good feeling,returned, "Yes," again.

"Well, I thought so," said Abner quietly. "But the fact is, yousee, that he never went home at all--nary time."

Everybody stared at Abner in genuine surprise and interest, as,with provoking calmness and a half-lazy manner, he went on,--

"You see, thar was a man down in 'Frisco as knowed him, and saw himin Sonora during the whole of that three years. He was herdingsheep, or tending cattle, or spekilating all that time, and hadn'ta red cent. Well it 'mounts to this,--that 'ar Plunkett ain't beeneast of the Rocky Mountains since '49."

The laugh which Abner Dean had the right to confidently expectcame; but it was bitter and sardonic. I think indignation wasapparent in the minds of his hearers. It was felt, for the firsttime, that there was a limit to practical joking. A deceptioncarried on for a year, compromising the sagacity of Monte Flat, wasdeserving the severest reprobation. Of course, nobody had believedPlunkett; but then the supposition that it might be believed inadjacent camps that they HAD believed him was gall and bitterness.The lawyer thought that an indictment for obtaining money underfalse pretences might be found. The physician had long suspectedhim of insanity, and was not certain but that he ought to beconfined. The four prominent merchants thought that the business-interests of Monte Flat demanded that something should be done. Inthe midst of an excited and angry discussion, the door slowlyopened, and old man Plunkett staggered into the room.

He had changed pitifully in the last six months. His hair was adusty, yellowish gray, like the chemisal on the flanks of HeavytreeHill; his face was waxen white, and blue and puffy under the eyes;his clothes were soiled and shabby, streaked in front with thestains of hurriedly eaten luncheons, and fluffy behind with thewool and hair of hurriedly-extemporized couches. In obedience tothat odd law, that, the more seedy and soiled a man's garmentsbecome, the less does he seem inclined to part with them, evenduring that portion of the twenty-four hours when they are deemedless essential, Plunkett's clothes had gradually taken on theappearance of a kind of a bark, or an outgrowth from within, forwhich their possessor was not entirely responsible. Howbeit, as heentered the room, he attempted to button his coat over a dirtyshirt, and passed his fingers, after the manner of some animal,over his cracker-strewn beard, in recognition of a cleanly publicsentiment. But, even as he did so, the weak smile faded from hislips; and his hand, after fumbling aimlessly around a button,dropped helplessly at his side. For as he leaned his back againstthe bar, and faced the group, he, for the first time, became awarethat every eye but one was fixed upon him. His quick, nervousapprehension at once leaped to the truth. His miserable secret wasout, and abroad in the very air about him. As a last resort, heglanced despairingly at Henry York; but his flushed face was turnedtoward the windows.

No word was spoken. As the bar-keeper silently swung a decanterand glass before him, he took a cracker from a dish, and mumbled itwith affected unconcern. He lingered over his liquor until itspotency stiffened his relaxed sinews, and dulled the nervous edgeof his apprehension, and then he suddenly faced around. "It don'tlook as if we were goin' to hev any rain much afore Christmas," hesaid with defiant ease.

No one made any reply.

"Just like this in '52, and again in '60. It's always been myopinion that these dry seasons come reg'lar. I've said it afore.I say it again. It's jist as I said about going home, you know,"he added with desperate recklessness.

"Thar's a man," said Abner Dean lazily, ez sez you never went home.Thar's a man ez sez you've been three years in Sonora. Thar's aman ez sez you hain't seen your wife and daughter since '49.Thar's a man ez sez you've been playin' this camp for six months."

There was a dead silence. Then a voice said quite as quietly,--

"That man lies."

It was not the old man's voice. Everybody turned as Henry Yorkslowly rose, stretching out his six feet of length, and, brushingaway the ashes that had fallen from his pipe upon his breast,deliberately placed himself beside Plunkett, and faced the others.

"That man ain't here," continued Abner Dean, with listlessindifference of voice, and a gentle pre-occupation of manner, as hecarelessly allowed his right hand to rest on his hip near hisrevolver. "That man ain't here; but, if I'm called upon to makegood what he says, why, I'm on hand."

All rose as the two men--perhaps the least externally agitated ofthem all--approached each other. The lawyer stepped in betweenthem.

"Perhaps there's some mistake here. York, do you KNOW that the oldman has been home?"

"Yes."

"How do you know it?"

York turned his clear, honest, frank eyes on his questioner, andwithout a tremor told the only direct and unmitigated lie of hislife. "Because I've seen him there."

The answer was conclusive. It was known that York had been visitingthe East during the old man's absence. The colloquy had divertedattention from Plunkett, who, pale and breathless, was staring athis unexpected deliverer. As he turned again toward his tormentors,there was something in the expression of his eye that caused thosethat were nearest to him to fall back, and sent a strange,indefinable thrill through the boldest and most reckless. As he madea step forward, the physician, almost unconsciously, raised his handwith a warning gesture; and old man Plunkett, with his eyes fixedupon the red-hot stove, and an odd smile playing about his mouth,began,--

"Yes--of course you did. Who says you didn't? It ain't no lie. Isaid I was goin' home--and I've been home. Haven't I? My God! Ihave. Who says I've been lyin'? Who says I'm dreamin'? Is ittrue--why don't you speak? It is true, after all. You say you sawme there: why don't you speak again? Say, say!--is it true? It'sgoing now. O my God! it's going again. It's going now. Save me!"And with a fierce cry he fell forward in a fit upon the floor.

When the old man regained his senses, he found himself in York'scabin. A flickering fire of pine-boughs lit up the rude rafters,and fell upon a photograph tastefully framed with fir-cones, andhung above the brush whereon he lay. It was the portrait of ayoung girl. It was the first object to meet the old man's gaze;and it brought with it a flush of such painful consciousness, thathe started, and glanced quickly around. But his eyes onlyencountered those of York,--clear, gray, critical, and patient,--and they fell again.

"Tell me, old man," said York not unkindly, but with the same cold,clear tone in his voice that his eye betrayed a moment ago,--"tellme, is THAT a lie too?" and he pointed to the picture.

The old man closed his eyes, and did not reply. Two hours before,the question would have stung him into some evasion or bravado.But the revelation contained in the question, as well as the toneof York's voice, was to him now, in his pitiable condition, arelief. It was plain, even to his confused brain, that York hadlied when he had indorsed his story in the bar-room; it was clearto him now that he had not been home, that he was not, as he hadbegun to fear, going mad. It was such a relief, that, withcharacteristic weakness, his former recklessness and extravagancereturned. He began to chuckle, finally to laugh uproariously.

York, with his eyes still fixed on the old man, withdrew the handwith which he had taken his.

"Didn't we fool 'em nicely; eh, Yorky! He, he! The biggest thingyet ever played in this camp! I always said I'd play 'em all someday, and I have--played 'em for six months. Ain't it rich?--ain'tit the richest thing you ever seed? Did you see Abner's face whenhe spoke 'bout that man as seed me in Sonora? Warn't it good asthe minstrels? Oh, it's too much!" and, striking his leg with thepalm of his hand, he almost threw himself from the bed in aparoxysm of laughter,--a paroxysm that, nevertheless, appeared tobe half real and half affected.

"Is that photograph hers?" said York in a low voice, after a slightpause.

"Hers? No! It's one of the San Francisco actresses. He, he!Don't you see? I bought it for two bits in one of the bookstores.I never thought they'd swaller THAT too; but they did! Oh, but theold man played 'em this time didn't he--eh?" and he peeredcuriously in York's face.

"Yes, and he played ME too," said York, looking steadily in the oldman's eye.

"Yes, of course," interposed Plunkett hastily; "but you know,Yorky, you got out of it well! You've sold 'em too. We've bothgot em on a string now--you and me--got to stick together now. Youdid it well, Yorky: you did it well. Why, when you said you'd seenme in York City, I'm d----d if I didn't"--

"Didn't what?" said York gently; for the old man had stopped with apale face and wandering eye.

"Eh?"

"You say when I said I had seen you in New York you thought"--

"You lie!" said the old man fiercely. "I didn't say I thought anything. What are you trying to go back on me for, eh?" His handswere trembling as he rose muttering from the bed, and made his waytoward the hearth.

"Gimme some whiskey," he said presently "and dry up. You oughtertreat anyway. Them fellows oughter treated last night. By hookey,I'd made 'em--only I fell sick."

York placed the liquor and a tin cup on the table beside him, and,going to the door, turned his back upon his guest, and looked outon the night. Although it was clear moonlight, the familiarprospect never to him seemed so dreary. The dead waste of thebroad Wingdam highway never seemed so monotonous, so like the daysthat he had passed, and were to come to him, so like the old man inits suggestion of going sometime, and never getting there. Heturned, and going up to Plunkett put his hand upon his shoulder,and said,--

"I want you to answer one question fairly and squarely."

The liquor seemed to have warmed the torpid blood in the old man'sveins, and softened his acerbity; for the face he turned up to Yorkwas mellowed in its rugged outline, and more thoughtful inexpression, as he said,--

"Go on, my boy."

"Have you a wife and--daughter?"

"Before God I have!"

The two men were silent for a moment, both gazing at the fire.Then Plunkett began rubbing his knees slowly.

"The wife, if it comes to that, ain't much," he began cautiously,"being a little on the shoulder, you know, and wantin', so to speaka liberal California education, which makes, you know, a badcombination. It's always been my opinion, that there ain't anyworse. Why, she's as ready with her tongue as Abner Dean is withhis revolver, only with the difference that she shoots fromprinciple, as she calls it; and the consequence is, she's alwayslayin' for you. It's the effete East, my boy, that's ruinin' her.It's them ideas she gets in New York and Boston that's made her andme what we are. I don't mind her havin' 'em, if she didn't shoot.But, havin' that propensity, them principles oughtn't to be lyinground loose no more'n firearms."

"But your daughter?" said York.

The old man's hands went up to his eyes here, and then both handsand head dropped forward on the table. "Don't say any thing 'bouther, my boy, don't ask me now." With one hand concealing his eyes,he fumbled about with the other in his pockets for his handkerchief--but vainly. Perhaps it was owing to this fact, that he repressedhis tears; for, when he removed his hand from his eyes, they werequite dry. Then he found his voice.

"She's a beautiful girl, beautiful, though I say it; and you shallsee her, my boy,--you shall see her sure. I've got things aboutfixed now. I shall have my plan for reducin' ores perfected a dayor two; and I've got proposals from all the smeltin' works here"(here he hastily produced a bundle of papers that fell upon thefloor), "and I'm goin' to send for 'em. I've got the papers hereas will give me ten thousand dollars clear in the next month," headded, as he strove to collect the valuable documents again. "I'llhave 'em here by Christmas, if I live; and you shall eat yourChristmas dinner with me, York, my boy,--you shall sure."

With his tongue now fairly loosened by liquor and the suggestivevastness of his prospects, he rambled on more or less incoherently,elaborating and amplifying his plans, occasionally even speaking ofthem as already accomplished, until the moon rode high in theheavens, and York led him again to his couch. Here he lay for sometime muttering to himself, until at last he sank into a heavysleep. When York had satisfied himself of the fact, he gently tookdown the picture and frame, and, going to the hearth, tossed themon the dying embers, and sat down to see them burn.

The fir-cones leaped instantly into flame; then the features thathad entranced San Francisco audiences nightly, flashed up andpassed away (as such things are apt to pass); and even the cynicalsmile on York's lips faded too. And then there came a supplementaland unexpected flash as the embers fell together, and by its lightYork saw a paper upon the floor. It was one that had fallen fromthe old man's pocket. As he picked it up listlessly, a photographslipped from its folds. It was the portrait of a young girl; andon its reverse was written in a scrawling hand, "Melinda to father."

It was at best a cheap picture, but, ah me! I fear even the deftgraciousness of the highest art could not have softened the rigidangularities of that youthful figure, its self-complacentvulgarity, its cheap finery, its expressionless ill-favor. Yorkdid not look at it a second time. He turned to the letter forrelief.

It was misspelled; it was unpunctuated; it was almost illegible; itwas fretful in tone, and selfish in sentiment. It was not, I fear,even original in the story of its woes. It was the harsh recitalof poverty, of suspicion, of mean makeshifts and compromises, oflow pains and lower longings, of sorrows that were degrading, of agrief that was pitiable. Yet it was sincere in a certain kind ofvague yearning for the presence of the degraded man to whom it waswritten,--an affection that was more like a confused instinct thana sentiment.

York folded it again carefully, and placed it beneath the old man'spillow. Then he returned to his seat by the fire. A smile thathad been playing upon his face, deepening the curves behind hismustache, and gradually overrunning his clear gray eyes, presentlyfaded away. It was last to go from his eyes; and it left there,oddly enough to those who did not know him, a tear.

He sat there for a long time, leaning forward, his head upon hishands. The wind that had been striving with the canvas roof all atonce lifted its edges, and a moonbeam slipped suddenly in, and layfor a moment like a shining blade upon his shoulder; and, knightedby its touch, straightway plain Henry York arose, sustained, high-purposed and self-reliant.

The rains had come at last. There was already a visible greennesson the slopes of Heavytree Hill; and the long, white track of theWingdam road was lost in outlying pools and ponds a hundred rodsfrom Monte Flat. The spent water-courses, whose white bones hadbeen sinuously trailed over the flat, like the vertebrae of someforgotten saurian, were full again; the dry bones moved once morein the valley; and there was joy in the ditches, and a pardonableextravagance in the columns of "The Monte Flat Monitor." "Neverbefore in the history of the county has the yield been sosatisfactory. Our contemporary of 'The Hillside Beacon,' whoyesterday facetiously alluded to the fact (?) that our bestcitizens were leaving town in 'dugouts,' on account of the flood,will be glad to hear that our distinguished fellow-townsman, Mr.Henry York, now on a visit to his relatives in the East, latelytook with him in his 'dugout' the modest sum of fifty thousanddollars, the result of one week's clean-up. We can imagine,"continued that sprightly journal, "that no such misfortune islikely to overtake Hillside this season. And yet we believe 'TheBeacon' man wants a railroad." A few journals broke out intopoetry. The operator at Simpson's Crossing telegraphed to "TheSacramento Universe" "All day the low clouds have shook theirgarnered fulness down." A San Francisco journal lapsed into nobleverse, thinly disguised as editorial prose: "Rejoice: the gentlerain has come, the bright and pearly rain, which scatters blessingson the hills, and sifts them o'er the plain. Rejoice," &c.Indeed, there was only one to whom the rain had not broughtblessing, and that was Plunkett. In some mysterious and darksomeway, it had interfered with the perfection of his new method ofreducing ores, and thrown the advent of that invention back anotherseason. It had brought him down to an habitual seat in the bar-room, where, to heedless and inattentive ears, he sat anddiscoursed of the East and his family.

No one disturbed him. Indeed, it was rumored that some funds hadbeen lodged with the landlord, by a person or persons unknown,whereby his few wants were provided for. His mania--for that wasthe charitable construction which Monte Flat put upon his conduct--was indulged, even to the extent of Monte Flat's accepting hisinvitation to dine with his family on Christmas Day,--an invitationextended frankly to every one with whom the old man drank ortalked. But one day, to everybody's astonishment, he burst intothe bar-room, holding an open letter in his hand. It read asfollows:--

"Be ready to meet your family at the new cottage on Heavytree Hillon Christmas Day. Invite what friends you choose.

"HENRY YORK."

The letter was handed round in silence. The old man, with a lookalternating between hope and fear, gazed in the faces of the group.The doctor looked up significantly, after a pause. "It's a forgeryevidently," he said in a low voice. "He's cunning enough toconceive it (they always are); but you'll find he'll fail inexecuting it. Watch his face!--Old man," he said suddenly, in aloud peremptory tone, "this is a trick, a forgery, and you know it.Answer me squarely, and look me in the eye. Isn't it so?"

The eyes of Plunkett stared a moment, and then dropped weakly.Then, with a feebler smile, he said, "You're too many for me, boys.The Doc's right. The little game's up. You can take the old man'shat;" and so, tottering, trembling, and chuckling, he dropped intosilence and his accustomed seat. But the next day he seemed tohave forgotten this episode, and talked as glibly as ever of theapproaching festivity.

And so the days and weeks passed until Christmas--a bright, clearday, warmed with south winds, and joyous with the resurrection ofspringing grasses--broke upon Monte Flat. And then there was asudden commotion in the hotel bar-room; and Abner Dean stood besidethe old man's chair, and shook him out of a slumber to his feet."Rouse up, old man. York is here, with your wife and daughter, atthe cottage on Heavytree. Come, old man. Here, boys, give him alift;" and in another moment a dozen strong and willing hands hadraised the old man, and bore him in triumph to the street up thesteep grade of Heavytree Hill, and deposited him, struggling andconfused, in the porch of a little cottage. At the same instanttwo women rushed forward, but were restrained by a gesture fromHenry York. The old man was struggling to his feet. With aneffort at last, he stood erect, trembling, his eye fixed, a graypallor on his cheek, and a deep resonance in his voice.

"It's all a trick, and a lie! They ain't no flesh and blood or kino' mine. It ain't my wife, nor child. My daughter's a beautifulgirl--a beautiful girl, d'ye hear? She's in New York with hermother, and I'm going to fetch her here. I said I'd go home, andI've been home: d'ye hear me? I've been home! It's a mean trickyou're playin' on the old man. Let me go: d'ye hear? Keep themwomen off me! Let me go! I'm going--I'm going--home!"

His hands were thrown up convulsively in the air, and, half turninground, he fell sideways on the porch, and so to the ground. Theypicked him up hurriedly, but too late. He had gone home.

THE FOOL OF FIVE FORKS

He lived alone. I do not think this peculiarity arose from anywish to withdraw his foolishness from the rest of the camp, nor wasit probable that the combined wisdom of Five Forks ever drove himinto exile. My impression is, that he lived alone from choice,--achoice he made long before the camp indulged in any criticism ofhis mental capacity. He was much given to moody reticence, and,although to outward appearances a strong man, was always complainingof ill-health. Indeed, one theory of his isolation was, that itafforded him better opportunities for taking medicine, of whichhe habitually consumed large quantities.

His folly first dawned upon Five Forks through the post-officewindows. He was, for a long time, the only man who wrote home byevery mail; his letters being always directed to the same person,--a woman. Now, it so happened that the bulk of the Five Forkscorrespondence was usually the other way. There were many lettersreceived (the majority being in the female hand), but very fewanswered. The men received them indifferently, or as a matter ofcourse. A few opened and read them on the spot, with a barelyrepressed smile of self-conceit, or quite as frequently glancedover them with undisguised impatience. Some of the letters beganwith "My dear husband;" and some were never called for. But thefact that the only regular correspondent of Five Forks neverreceived any reply became at last quite notorious. Consequently,when an envelope was received, bearing the stamp of the "deadletter office," addressed to "The Fool," under the moreconventional title of "Cyrus Hawkins," there was quite a fever ofexcitement. I do not know how the secret leaked out; but it waseventually known to the camp, that the envelope contained Hawkins'sown letters returned. This was the first evidence of his weakness.Any man who repeatedly wrote to a woman who did not reply must be afool. I think Hawkins suspected that his folly was known to thecamp; but he took refuge in symptoms of chills and fever, which heat once developed, and effected a diversion with three bottles ofIndian cholagogue and two boxes of pills. At all events, at theend of a week, he resumed a pen stiffened by tonics, with all hisold epistolatory pertinacity. This time the letters had a newaddress.

In those days a popular belief obtained in the mines, that luckparticularly favored the foolish and unscientific. Consequently,when Hawkins struck a "pocket" in the hillside near his solitarycabin, there was but little surprise. "He will sink it all in thenext hole" was the prevailing belief, predicated upon the usualmanner in which the possessor of "nigger luck" disposed of hisfortune. To everybody's astonishment, Hawkins, after taking outabout eight thousand dollars, and exhausting the pocket, did notprospect for another. The camp then waited patiently to see whathe would do with his money. I think, however, that it was with thegreatest difficulty their indignation was kept from taking the formof a personal assault when it became known that he had purchased adraft for eight thousand dollars, in favor of "that woman." Morethan this, it was finally whispered that the draft was returned tohim as his letters had been, and that he was ashamed to reclaim themoney at the express-office. "It wouldn't be a bad specilation togo East, get some smart gal, for a hundred dollars, to dressherself up and represent that 'Hag,' and jest freeze onto thateight thousand," suggested a far-seeing financier. I may statehere, that we always alluded to Hawkins's fair unknown as the "Hag"without having, I am confident, the least justification for thatepithet.

That the "Fool" should gamble seemed eminently fit and proper.That he should occasionally win a large stake, according to thatpopular theory which I have recorded in the preceding paragraph,appeared, also, a not improbable or inconsistent fact. That heshould, however, break the faro bank which Mr. John Hamlin had setup in Five Forks, and carry off a sum variously estimated at fromten to twenty thousand dollars, and not return the next day, andlose the money at the same table, really appeared incredible. Yetsuch was the fact. A day or two passed without any knowninvestment of Mr. Hawkins's recently-acquired capital. "Ef heallows to send it to that 'Hag,'" said one prominent citizen,"suthin' ought to be done. It's jest ruinin' the reputation ofthis yer camp,--this sloshin' around o' capital on non-residents ezdon't claim it!" "It's settin' an example o' extravagance," saidanother, "ez is little better nor a swindle. Thais mor'n five menin this camp, thet, hearin' thet Hawkins hed sent home eightthousand dollars, must jest rise up and send home their hardearnings too! And then to think thet thet eight thousand was onlya bluff, after all, and thet it's lyin' there on call in Adams &Co.'s bank! Well, I say it's one o' them things a vigilancecommittee oughter look into."

When there seemed no possibility of this repetition of Hawkins'sfolly, the anxiety to know what he had really done with his moneybecame intense. At last a self-appointed committee of fourcitizens dropped artfully, but to outward appearances carelessly,upon him in his seclusion. When some polite formalities had beenexchanged, and some easy vituperation of a backward season offeredby each of the parties, Tom Wingate approached the subject.

"Sorter dropped heavy on Jack Hamlin the other night, didn't ye?He allows you didn't give him no show for revenge. I said youwasn't no such d----d fool; didn't I, Dick?" continued the artfulWingate, appealing to a confederate.

"Yes," said Dick promptly. "You said twenty thousand dollarswasn't goin' to be thrown around recklessly. You said Cyrus hadsuthin' better to do with his capital," super-added Dick withgratuitous mendacity. "I disremember now what particklerinvestment you said he was goin' to make with it," he continued,appealing with easy indifference to his friend.

Of course Wingate did not reply, but looked at the "Fool," who,with a troubled face, was rubbing his legs softly. After a pause,he turned deprecatingly toward his visitors.

"Ye didn't enny of ye ever hev a sort of tremblin' in your legs, akind o' shakiness from the knee down? Suthin'," he continued,slightly brightening with his topic,--"suthin' that begins likechills, and yet ain't chills? A kind o' sensation of gonenesshere, and a kind o' feelin' as it you might die suddint?--whenWright's Pills don't somehow reach the spot, and quinine don'tfetch you?"

"No!" said Wingate with a curt directness, and the air ofauthoritatively responding for his friends,--"no, never had. Youwas speakin' of this yer investment."

"And your bowels all the time irregular?" continued Hawkins,blushing under Wingate's eye, and yet clinging despairingly to histheme, like a shipwrecked mariner to his plank.

Wingate did not reply, but glanced significantly at the rest.Hawkins evidently saw this recognition of his mental deficiency,and said apologetically, "You was saying suthin' about myinvestment?"

"Yes," said Wingate, so rapidly as to almost take Hawkins's breathaway,--"the investment you made in"--

"Rafferty's Ditch," said the "Fool" timidly.

For a moment, the visitors could only stare blankly at each other."Rafferty's Ditch," the one notorious failure of Five Forks!--Rafferty's Ditch, the impracticable scheme of an utterlyunpractical man!--Rafferty's Ditch, a ridiculous plan for takingwater that could not be got to a place where it wasn't wanted!--Rafferty's Ditch, that had buried the fortunes of Rafferty andtwenty wretched stockholders in its muddy depths!

"And thet's it, is it?" said Wingate, after a gloomy pause."Thet's it! I see it all now, boys. That's how ragged PatRafferty went down to San Francisco yesterday in store-clothes, andhis wife and four children went off in a kerridge to Sacramento.Thet's why them ten workmen of his, ez hadn't a cent to blessthemselves with, was playin' billiards last night, and eatin'isters. Thet's whar that money kum frum,--one hundred dollars topay for the long advertisement of the new issue of ditch stock inthe "Times" yesterday. Thet's why them six strangers were bookedat the Magnolia hotel yesterday. Don't you see? It's thet money--and that 'Fool'!"

The "Fool" sat silent. The visitors rose without a word.

"You never took any of them Indian Vegetable Pills?" asked Hawkinstimidly of Wingate.

"No!" roared Wingate as he opened the door.

"They tell me, that, took with the Panacea,--they was out o' thePanacea when I went to the drug-store last week,--they say, that,took with the Panacea, they always effect a certin cure." But bythis time, Wingate and his disgusted friends had retreated,slamming the door on the "Fool" and his ailments.

Nevertheless, in six months the whole affair was forgotten: themoney had been spent; the "Ditch" had been purchased by a companyof Boston capitalists, fired by the glowing description of anEastern tourist, who had spent one drunken night at Five Forks; andI think even the mental condition of Hawkins might have remainedundisturbed by criticism, but for a singular incident.

It was during an exciting political campaign, when party-feelingran high, that the irascible Capt. McFadden of Sacramento visitedFive Forks. During a heated discussion in the Prairie Rose Saloon,words passed between the captain and the Hon. Calhoun Bungstarter,ending in a challenge. The captain bore the infelicitousreputation of being a notorious duellist and a dead-shot. Thecaptain was unpopular. The captain was believed to have been sentby the opposition for a deadly purpose; and the captain was,moreover, a stranger. I am sorry to say that with Five Forks thislatter condition did not carry the quality of sanctity or reverencethat usually obtains among other nomads. There was, consequently,some little hesitation when the captain turned upon the crowd, andasked for some one to act as his friend. To everybody'sastonishment, and to the indignation of many, the "Fool" steppedforward, and offered himself in that capacity. I do not knowwhether Capt. McFadden would have chosen him voluntarily; but hewas constrained, in the absence of a better man, to accept hisservices.

The duel never took place. The preliminaries were all arranged,the spot indicated; the men were present with their seconds; therewas no interruption from without; there was no explanation orapology passed--but the duel did not take place. It may be readilyimagined that these facts, which were all known to Five Forks,threw the whole community into a fever of curiosity. Theprincipals, the surgeon, and one second left town the next day.Only the "Fool" remained. HE resisted all questioning, declaringhimself held in honor not to divulge: in short, conducted himselfwith consistent but exasperating folly. It was not until sixmonths had passed, that Col. Starbottle, the second of CalhounBungstarter, in a moment of weakness, superinduced by the socialglass, condescended to explain. I should not do justice to theparties, if I did not give that explanation in the colonel's ownwords. I may remark, in passing, that the characteristic dignityof Col. Starbottle always became intensified by stimulants, andthat, by the same process, all sense of humor was utterly eliminated.

"With the understanding that I am addressing myself confidentiallyto men of honor," said the colonel, elevating his chest above thebar-room counter of the Prairie Rose Saloon, "I trust that it willnot be necessary for me to protect myself from levity, as I wasforced to do in Sacramento on the only other occasion when Ientered into an explanation of this delicate affair by--er--er--calling the individual to a personal account--er. I do notbelieve," added the colonel, slightly waving his glass of liquor inthe air with a graceful gesture of courteous deprecation, "knowingwhat I do of the present company, that such a course of action isrequired here. Certainly not, sir, in the home of Mr. Hawkins--er--the gentleman who represented Mr. Bungstarter, whose conduct, ged,sir, is worthy of praise, blank me!"

Apparently satisfied with the gravity and respectful attention ofhis listeners, Col. Starbottle smiled relentingly and sweetly,closed his eyes half-dreamily, as if to recall his wanderingthoughts, and began,--

"As the spot selected was nearest the tenement of Mr. Hawkins, itwas agreed that the parties should meet there. They did sopromptly at half-past six. The morning being chilly, Mr. Hawkinsextended the hospitalities of his house with a bottle of Bourbonwhiskey, of which all partook but myself. The reason for thatexception is, I believe, well known. It is my invariable custom totake brandy--a wineglassful in a cup of strong coffee--immediatelyon rising. It stimulates the functions, sir, without producing anyblank derangement of the nerves."

The barkeeper, to whom, as an expert, the colonel had graciouslyimparted this information, nodded approvingly; and the colonel,amid a breathless silence, went on.

"We were about twenty minutes in reaching the spot. The ground wasmeasured, the weapons were loaded, when Mr. Bungstarter confided tome the information that he was unwell, and in great pain. Onconsultation with Mr. Hawkins, it appeared that his principal, in adistant part of the field, was also suffering, and in great pain.The symptoms were such as a medical man would pronounce 'choleraic.'I say WOULD have pronounced; for, on examination, the surgeon wasalso found to be--er--in pain, and, I regret to say, expressinghimself in language unbecoming the occasion. His impression was,that some powerful drug had been administered. On referring thequestion to Mr. Hawkins, he remembered that the bottle of whiskeypartaken by them contained a medicine which he had been in the habitof taking, but which, having failed to act upon him, he hadconcluded to be generally ineffective, and had forgotten. Hisperfect willingness to hold himself personally responsible to eachof the parties, his genuine concern at the disastrous effect of themistake, mingled with his own alarm at the state of his system,which--er--failed to--er--respond to the peculiar qualities of themedicine, was most becoming to him as a man of honor and agentleman. After an hour's delay, both principals being completelyexhausted, and abandoned by the surgeon, who was unreasonablyalarmed at his own condition, Mr. Hawkins and I agreed to remove ourmen to Markleville. There, after a further consultation with Mr.Hawkins, an amicable adjustment of all difficulties, honorable toboth parties, and governed by profound secrecy, was arranged. Ibelieve," added the colonel, looking around, and setting down hisglass, "no gentleman has yet expressed himself other than satisfiedwith the result."

Perhaps it was the colonel's manner; but, whatever was the opinionof Five Forks regarding the intellectual display of Mr. Hawkins inthis affair, there was very little outspoken criticism at themoment. In a few weeks the whole thing was forgotten, except aspart of the necessary record of Hawkins's blunders, which wasalready a pretty full one. Again, some later follies conspired toobliterate the past, until, a year later, a valuable lead wasdiscovered in the "Blazing Star" tunnel, in the hill where helived; and a large sum was offered him for a portion of his land onthe hilltop. Accustomed as Five Forks had become to the exhibitionof his folly, it was with astonishment that they learned that heresolutely and decidedly refused the offer. The reason that hegave was still more astounding,--he was about to build.

To build a house upon property available for mining-purposes waspreposterous; to build at all, with a roof already covering him,was an act of extravagance; to build a house of the style heproposed was simply madness.

Yet here were facts. The plans were made, and the lumber for thenew building was already on the ground, while the shaft of the"Blazing Star" was being sunk below. The site was, in reality, avery picturesque one, the building itself of a style and qualityhitherto unknown in Five Forks. The citizens, at first sceptical,during their moments of recreation and idleness gathered doubtinglyabout the locality. Day by day, in that climate of rapid growths,the building, pleasantly known in the slang of Five Forks as the"Idiot Asylum," rose beside the green oaks and clustering firs ofHawkins Hill, as if it were part of the natural phenomena. At lastit was completed. Then Mr. Hawkins proceeded to furnish it with anexpensiveness and extravagance of outlay quite in keeping with hisformer idiocy. Carpets, sofas, mirrors, and finally a piano,--theonly one known in the county, and brought at great expense fromSacramento,--kept curiosity at a fever-heat. More than that, therewere articles and ornaments which a few married experts declaredonly fit for women. When the furnishing of the house wascomplete,--it had occupied two months of the speculative andcurious attention of the camp,--Mr. Hawkins locked the front-door,put the key in his pocket, and quietly retired to his more humbleroof, lower on the hillside.

I have not deemed it necessary to indicate to the intelligentreader all of the theories which obtained in Five Forks during theerection of the building. Some of them may be readily imagined.That the "Hag" had, by artful coyness and systematic reticence, atlast completely subjugated the "Fool," and that the new house wasintended for the nuptial bower of the (predestined) unhappy pair,was, of course, the prevailing opinion. But when, after areasonable time had elapsed, and the house still remaineduntenanted, the more exasperating conviction forced itself upon thegeneral mind, that the "Fool" had been for the third time imposedupon; when two months had elapsed, and there seemed no prospect ofa mistress for the new house,--I think public indignation became sostrong, that, had the "Hag" arrived, the marriage would have beenpublicly prevented. But no one appeared that seemed to answer tothis idea of an available tenant; and all inquiry of Mr. Hawkins asto his intention in building a house, and not renting it, oroccupying it, failed to elicit any further information. Thereasons that he gave were felt to be vague, evasive, andunsatisfactory. He was in no hurry to move, he said. When he WASready, it surely was not strange that he should like to have hishouse all ready to receive him. He was often seen upon theveranda, of a summer evening, smoking a cigar. It is reported thatone night the house was observed to be brilliantly lighted fromgarret to basement; that a neighbor, observing this, crept towardthe open parlor-window, and, looking in, espied the "Fool"accurately dressed in evening costume, lounging upon a sofa in thedrawing-room, with the easy air of socially entertaining a largeparty. Notwithstanding this, the house was unmistakably vacantthat evening, save for the presence of the owner, as the witnessafterward testified. When this story was first related, a fewpractical men suggested the theory that Mr. Hawkins was simplydrilling himself in the elaborate duties of hospitality against aprobable event in his history. A few ventured the belief that thehouse was haunted. The imaginative editor of the Five Forks"Record" evolved from the depths of his professional consciousnessa story that Hawkins's sweetheart had died, and that he regularlyentertained her spirit in this beautifully furnished mausoleum.The occasional spectacle of Hawkins's tall figure pacing theveranda on moonlight nights lent some credence to this theory,until an unlooked-for incident diverted all speculation intoanother channel.

It was about this time that a certain wild, rude valley, in theneighborhood of Five Forks, had become famous as a picturesqueresort. Travellers had visited it, and declared that there weremore cubic yards of rough stone cliff, and a waterfall of greaterheight, than any they had visited. Correspondents had written itup with extravagant rhetoric and inordinate poetical quotation.Men and women who had never enjoyed a sunset, a tree, or a flower,who had never appreciated the graciousness or meaning of the yellowsunlight that flecked their homely doorways, or the tenderness of amidsummer's night, to whose moonlight they bared their shirt-sleeves or their tulle dresses, came from thousands of miles awayto calculate the height of this rock, to observe the depth of thischasm, to remark upon the enormous size of this unsightly tree, andto believe with ineffable self-complacency that they really admiredNature. And so it came to pass, that, in accordance with thetastes or weaknesses of the individual, the more prominent andsalient points of the valley were christened; and there was a "LaceHandkerchief Fall," and the "Tears of Sympathy Cataract," and onedistinguished orator's "Peak," and several "Mounts" of variousnoted people, living or dead, and an "Exclamation-Point," and a"Valley of Silent Adoration." And, in course of time, empty soda-water bottles were found at the base of the cataract, and greasynewspapers, and fragments of ham-sandwiches, lay at the dusty rootsof giant trees. With this, there were frequent irruptions ofclosely-shaven and tightly-cravated men, and delicate, flower-facedwomen, in the one long street of Five Forks, and a scampering ofmules, and an occasional procession of dusty brown-linen cavalry.

A year after "Hawkins's Idiot Asylum" was completed, one day theredrifted into the valley a riotous cavalcade of "school-marms,"teachers of the San Francisco public schools, out for a holiday.Not severely-spectacled Minervas, and chastely armed and mailedPallases, but, I fear, for the security of Five Forks, very human,charming, and mischievous young women. At least, so the menthought, working in the ditches, and tunnelling on the hillside;and when, in the interests of science, and the mental advancementof juvenile posterity, it was finally settled that they should stayin Five Forks two or three days for the sake of visiting thevarious mines, and particularly the "Blazing Star" tunnel, therewas some flutter of masculine anxiety. There was a considerableinquiry for "store-clothes," a hopeless overhauling of old anddisused raiment, and a general demand fox "boiled shirts" and thebarber.

Meanwhile, with that supreme audacity and impudent hardihood of thesex when gregarious, the school-marms rode through the town,admiring openly the handsome faces and manly figures that looked upfrom the ditches, or rose behind the cars of ore at the mouths oftunnels. Indeed, it is alleged that Jenny Forester, backed andsupported by seven other equally shameless young women, had openlyand publicly waved her handkerchief to the florid Hercules of FiveForks, one Tom Flynn, formerly of Virginia, leaving that good-natured but not over-bright giant pulling his blonde mustaches inbashful amazement.

It was a pleasant June afternoon that Miss Milly Arnot, principalof the primary department of one of the public schools of SanFrancisco, having evaded her companions, resolved to put intooperation a plan which had lately sprung up in her courageous andmischief-loving fancy. With that wonderful and mysterious instinctof her sex, from whom no secrets of the affections are hid, and towhom all hearts are laid open, she had heard the story of Hawkins'sfolly, and the existence of the "Idiot Asylum." Alone, on HawkinsHill, she had determined to penetrate its seclusion. Skirting theunderbrush at the foot of the hill, she managed to keep theheaviest timber between herself and the "Blazing Star" tunnel atits base, as well as the cabin of Hawkins, half-way up the ascent,until, by a circuitous route, at last she reached, unobserved, thesummit. Before her rose, silent, darkened, and motionless, theobject of her search. Here her courage failed her, with all thecharacteristic inconsequence of her sex. A sudden fear of all thedangers she had safely passed--bears, tarantulas, drunken men, andlizards--came upon her. For a moment, as she afterward expressedit, "she thought she should die." With this belief, probably, shegathered three large stones, which she could hardly lift, for thepurpose of throwing a great distance; put two hair-pins in hermouth; and carefully re-adjusted with both hands two stray braidsof her lovely blue-black mane, which had fallen in gathering thestones. Then she felt in the pockets of her linen duster for hercard-case, handkerchief, pocketbook, and smelling-bottle, and,finding them intact, suddenly assumed an air of easy, ladylikeunconcern, went up the steps of the veranda, and demurely pulledthe front doorbell, which she knew would not be answered. After adecent pause, she walked around the encompassing veranda, examiningthe closed shutters of the French windows until she found one thatyielded to her touch. Here she paused again to adjust hercoquettish hat by the mirror-like surface of the long sash-window,that reflected the full length of her pretty figure. And then sheopened the window, and entered the room.

Although long closed, the house had a smell of newness and of freshpaint, that was quite unlike the mouldiness of the conventionalhaunted house. The bright carpets, the cheerful walls, theglistening oil-cloths, were quite inconsistent with the idea of aghost. With childish curiosity, she began to explore the silenthouse, at first timidly,--opening the doors with a violent push,and then stepping back from the threshold to make good a possibleretreat,--and then more boldly, as she became convinced of hersecurity and absolute loneliness. In one of the chambers--thelargest--there were fresh flowers in a vase, evidently gatheredthat morning; and, what seemed still more remarkable, the pitchersand ewers were freshly filled with water. This obliged Miss Millyto notice another singular fact, namely, that the house was freefrom dust, the one most obtrusive and penetrating visitor of FiveForks. The floors and carpets had been recently swept, the chairsand furniture carefully wiped and dusted. If the house WAShaunted, it was possessed by a spirit who had none of the usualindifference to decay and mould. And yet the beds had evidentlynever been slept in, the very springs of the chair in which she satcreaked stiffly at the novelty; the closet-doors opened with thereluctance of fresh paint and varnish; and in spite of the warmth,cleanliness, and cheerfulness of furniture and decoration, therewas none of the ease of tenancy and occupation. As Miss Millyafterward confessed, she longed to "tumble things around;" and,when she reached the parlor or drawing-room again, she could hardlyresist the desire. Particularly was she tempted by a closed piano,that stood mutely against the wall. She thought she would open itjust to see who was the maker. That done, it would be no harm totry its tone. She did so, with one little foot on the soft pedal.But Miss Milly was too good a player, and too enthusiastic amusician, to stop at half-measures. She tried it again, this timeso sincerely, that the whole house seemed to spring into voice.Then she stopped and listened. There was no response: the emptyrooms seemed to have relapsed into their old stillness. Shestepped out on the veranda. A woodpecker recommenced his tappingon an adjacent tree: the rattle of a cart in the rocky gulch belowthe hill came faintly up. No one was to be seen far or near. MissMilly, re-assured, returned. She again ran her fingers over thekeys, stopped, caught at a melody running in her mind, half playedit, and then threw away all caution. Before five minutes hadelapsed, she had entirely forgotten herself, and with her linenduster thrown aside, her straw hat flung on the piano, her whitehands bared, and a black loop of her braided hair hanging upon hershoulder, was fairly embarked upon a flowing sea of musicalrecollection.

She had played, perhaps, half an hour, when having just finished anelaborate symphony, and resting her hands on the keys, she heardvery distinctly and unmistakably the sound of applause fromwithout. In an instant the fires of shame and indignation leapedinto her cheeks; and she rose from the instrument, and ran to thewindow, only in time to catch sight of a dozen figures in blue andred flannel shirts vanishing hurriedly through the trees below.

Miss Milly's mind was instantly made up. I think I have alreadyintimated, that, under the stimulus of excitement, she was notwanting in courage; and as she quietly resumed her gloves, hat, andduster, she was not, perhaps, exactly the young person that itwould be entirely safe for the timid, embarrassed, or inexperiencedof my sex to meet alone. She shut down the piano; and havingcarefully reclosed all the windows and doors, and restored thehouse to its former desolate condition, she stepped from theveranda, and proceeded directly to the cabin of the unintellectualHawkins, that reared its adobe chimney above the umbrage a quarterof a mile below.

The door opened instantly to her impulsive knock, and the "Fool ofFive Forks" stood before her. Miss Milly had never before seen theman designated by this infelicitous title; and as he steppedbackward, in half courtesy and half astonishment, she was, for themoment, disconcerted. He was tall, finely formed, and dark-bearded. Above cheeks a little hollowed by care and ill-healthshone a pair of hazel eyes, very large, very gentle, butinexpressibly sad and mournful. This was certainly not the kindof man Miss Milly had expected to see; yet, after her firstembarrassment had passed, the very circumstance, oddly enough,added to her indignation, and stung her wounded pride still moredeeply. Nevertheless, the arch hypocrite instantly changed hertactics with the swift intuition of her sex.

"I have come," she said with a dazzling smile, infinitely moredangerous than her former dignified severity,--"I have come to askyour pardon for a great liberty I have just taken. I believe thenew house above us on the hill is yours. I was so much pleasedwith its exterior, that I left my friends for a moment below here,"she continued artfully, with a slight wave of the hand, as ifindicating a band of fearless Amazons without, and waiting toavenge any possible insult offered to one of their number, "andventured to enter it. Finding it unoccupied, as I had been told, Iam afraid I had the audacity to sit down and amuse myself for a fewmoments at the piano, while waiting for my friends."

Hawkins raised his beautiful eyes to hers. He saw a very prettygirl, with frank gray eyes glistening with excitement, with twored, slightly freckled cheeks glowing a little under his eyes, witha short scarlet upper-lip turned back, like a rose-leaf, over alittle line of white teeth, as she breathed somewhat hurriedly inher nervous excitement. He saw all this calmly, quietly, and, savefor the natural uneasiness of a shy, reticent man, I fear without aquickening of his pulse.

"I knowed it," he said simply. "I heerd ye as I kem up."

Miss Milly was furious at his grammar, his dialect, his coolness,and, still more, at the suspicion that he was an active member ofher in visible elaque.

"Ah!" she said, still smiling. "Then I think I heard YOU"--

"I reckon not," he interrupted gravely. "I didn't stay long. Ifound the boys hanging round the house, and I allowed at first I'dgo in and kinder warn you; but they promised to keep still: and youlooked so comfortable, and wrapped up in your music, that I hadn'tthe heart to disturb you, and kem away. I hope," he addedearnestly, "they didn't let on ez they heerd you. They ain't a badlot,--them Blazin' Star boys--though they're a little hard attimes. But they'd no more hurt ye then they would a--a--a cat!"continued Mr. Hawkins, blushing with a faint apprehension of theinelegance of his simile.

"No, no!" said Miss Milly, feeling suddenly very angry withherself, the "Fool," and the entire male population of Five Forks."No! I have behaved foolishly, I suppose--and, if they HAD, itwould have served me right. But I only wanted to apologize to you.You'll find every thing as you left it. Good-day!"

She turned to go. Mr. Hawkins began to feel embarrassed. "I'dhave asked ye to sit down," he said finally, "if it hed been aplace fit for a lady. I oughter done so, enny way. I don't knowwhat kept me from it. But I ain't well, miss. Times I get a sorto' dumb ager,--it's the ditches, I think, miss,--and I don't seemto hev my wits about me."

"No," said Miss Milly curtly. She had usually a keen sense of theludicrous; but somehow Mr. Hawkins's eccentricity only pained her.

"Will you let me see you to the foot of the hill?" he said again,after another embarrassing pause.

Miss Arnot felt instantly that such an act would condone hertrespass in the eyes of the world. She might meet some of herinvisible admirers, or even her companions; and, with all hererratic impulses, she was, nevertheless, a woman, and did notentirely despise the verdict of conventionality. She smiledsweetly, and assented; and in another moment the two were lost inthe shadows of the wood.

Like many other apparently trivial acts in an uneventful life, itwas decisive. As she expected, she met two or three of her lateapplauders, whom, she fancied, looked sheepish and embarrassed; shemet, also, her companions looking for her in some alarm, who reallyappeared astonished at her escort, and, she fancied, a trifleenvious of her evident success. I fear that Miss Arnot, inresponse to their anxious inquiries, did not state entirely thetruth, but, without actual assertion, led them to believe that shehad, at a very early stage of the proceeding, completely subjugatedthis weak-minded giant, and had brought him triumphantly to herfeet. From telling this story two or three times, she got finallyto believing that she had some foundation for it, then to a vaguesort of desire that it would eventually prove to be true, and thento an equally vague yearning to hasten that consummation. That itwould redound to any satisfaction of the "Fool" she did not stop todoubt. That it would cure him of his folly she was quite confident.Indeed, there are very few of us, men or women, who do not believethat even a hopeless love for ourselves is more conducive to thesalvation of the lover than a requited affection for another.

The criticism of Five Forks was, as the reader may imagine, swiftand conclusive. When it was found out that Miss Arnot was not the"Hag" masquerading as a young and pretty girl, to the ultimatedeception of Five Forks in general, and the "Fool" in particular,it was at once decided that nothing but the speedy union of the"Fool" and the "pretty school-marm" was consistent with ordinarycommon sense. The singular good-fortune of Hawkins was quite inaccordance with the theory of his luck as propounded by the camp.That, after the "Hag" failed to make her appearance, he should"strike a lead" in his own house, without the trouble of"prospectin'," seemed to these casuists as a wonderful butinevitable law. To add to these fateful probabilities, Miss Arnotfell, and sprained her ankle, in the ascent of Mount Lincoln, andwas confined for some weeks to the hotel after her companions haddeparted. During this period, Hawkins was civilly but grotesquelyattentive. When, after a reasonable time had elapsed, there stillappeared to be no immediate prospect of the occupancy of the newhouse, public opinion experienced a singular change in regard toits theories of Mr. Hawkins's conduct. The "Hag" was looked uponas a saint-like and long-suffering martyr to the weaknesses andinconsistency of the "Fool." That, after erecting this new houseat her request, he had suddenly "gone back" on her; that hiscelibacy was the result of a long habit of weak proposal andsubsequent shameless rejection; and that he was now trying his handon the helpless schoolmarm, was perfectly plain to Five Forks.That he should be frustrated in his attempts at any cost wasequally plain. Miss Milly suddenly found herself invested with arude chivalry that would have been amusing, had it not been attimes embarrassing; that would have been impertinent, but for thealmost superstitious respect with which it was proffered. Everyday somebody from Five Forks rode out to inquire the health of thefair patient. "Hez Hawkins bin over yer to-day?" queried TomFlynn, with artful ease and indifference, as he leaned over MissMilly's easy-chair on the veranda. Miss Milly, with a faint pinkflush on her cheek, was constrained to answer, "No." "Well, hesorter sprained his foot agin a rock yesterday," continued Flynnwith shameless untruthfulness. "You mus'n't think any thing o'that, Miss Arnot. He'll be over yer to-morrer; and meantime hetold me to hand this yer bookay with his re-gards, and this yerspecimen." And Mr. Flynn laid down the flowers he had picked enroute against such an emergency, and presented respectfully a pieceof quartz and gold, which he had taken that morning from his ownsluice-box. "You mus'n't mind Hawkins's ways, Miss Milly," saidanother sympathizing miner. "There ain't a better man in camp thanthat theer Cy Hawkins--but he don't understand the ways o' theworld with wimen. He hasn't mixed as much with society as the restof us," he added, with an elaborate Chesterfieldian ease of manner;"but he means well." Meanwhile a few other sympathetic tunnelmenwere impressing upon Mr. Hawkins the necessity of the greatestattention to the invalid. "It won't do, Hawkins," they explained,"to let that there gal go back to San Francisco and say, that, whenshe was sick and alone, the only man in Five Forks under whose roofshe had rested, and at whose table she had sat" (this wasconsidered a natural but pardonable exaggeration of rhetoric) "everthrew off on her; and it sha'n't be done. It ain't the squarething to Five Forks." And then the "Fool" would rush away to thevalley, and be received by Miss Milly with a certain reserve ofmanner that finally disappeared in a flush of color, some increasedvivacity, and a pardonable coquetry. And so the days passed. MissMilly grew better in health, and more troubled in mind; and Mr.Hawkins became more and more embarrassed; and Five Forks smiled,and rubbed its hands, and waited for the approaching denoument.And then it came--but not, perhaps, in the manner that Five Forkshad imagined.

It was a lovely afternoon in July that a party of Eastern touristsrode into Five Forks. They had just "done" the Valley of BigThings; and, there being one or two Eastern capitalists among theparty, it was deemed advisable that a proper knowledge of thepractical mining-resources of California should be added to theirexperience of the merely picturesque in Nature. Thus far everything had been satisfactory; the amount of water which passed overthe Fall was large, owing to a backward season; some snow stillremained in the canyons near the highest peaks; they had riddenround one of the biggest trees, and through the prostrate trunk ofanother. To say that they were delighted is to express feebly theenthusiasm of these ladies and gentlemen, drunk with the champagnyhospitality of their entertainers, the utter novelty of scene, andthe dry, exhilarating air of the valley. One or two had alreadyexpressed themselves ready to live and die there; another hadwritten a glowing account to the Eastern press, depreciating allother scenery in Europe and America; and, under these circumstances,it was reasonably expected that Five Forks would do its duty,and equally impress the stranger after its own fashion.

Letters to this effect were sent from San Francisco by prominentcapitalists there; and, under the able superintendence of one oftheir agents, the visitors were taken in hand, shown "what was tobe seen," carefully restrained from observing what ought not to bevisible, and so kept in a blissful and enthusiastic condition. Andso the graveyard of Five Forks, in which but two of the occupantshad died natural deaths; the dreary, ragged cabins on thehillsides, with their sad-eyed, cynical, broken-spirited occupants,toiling on day by day for a miserable pittance, and a fare that aself-respecting Eastern mechanic would have scornfully rejected,--were not a part of the Eastern visitors' recollection. But thehoisting works and machinery of the "Blazing Star Tunnel Company"was,--the Blazing Star Tunnel Company, whose "gentlemanlysuperintendent" had received private information from San Franciscoto do the "proper thing" for the party. Wherefore the valuableheaps of ore in the company's works were shown; the oblong bars ofgold, ready for shipment, were playfully offered to the ladies whocould lift and carry them away unaided; and even the tunnel itself,gloomy, fateful, and peculiar, was shown as part of the experience;and, in the noble language of one correspondent, "The wealth ofFive Forks, and the peculiar inducements that it offered to Easterncapitalists," were established beyond a doubt. And then occurred alittle incident, which, as an unbiassed spectator, I am free to sayoffered no inducements to anybody whatever, but which, for itsbearing upon the central figure of this veracious chronicle, Icannot pass over.

It had become apparent to one or two more practical and sober-minded in the party, that certain portions of the "Blazing Star"tunnel (owing, perhaps, to the exigencies of a flattering annualdividend) were economically and imperfectly "shored" and supported,and were, consequently, unsafe, insecure, and to be avoided.Nevertheless, at a time when champagne corks were popping in darkcorners, and enthusiastic voices and happy laughter rang throughthe half-lighted levels and galleries, there came a sudden andmysterious silence. A few lights dashed swiftly by in thedirection of a distant part of the gallery, and then there was asudden sharp issuing of orders, and a dull, ominous rumble. Someof the visitors turned pale: one woman fainted.

Something had happened. What? "Nothing" (the speaker is fluent,but uneasy)--"one of the gentlemen, in trying to dislodge a'specimen' from the wall, had knocked away a support. There hadbeen a 'cave'--the gentleman was caught, and buried below hisshoulders. It was all right, they'd get him out in a moment--onlyit required great care to keep from extending the 'cave.' Didn'tknow his name. It was that little man, the husband of that livelylady with the black eyes. Eh! Hullo, there! Stop her! For God'ssake! Not that way! She'll fall from that shaft. She'll bekilled!"

But the lively lady was already gone. With staring black eyes,imploringly trying to pierce the gloom, with hands and feet thatsought to batter and break down the thick darkness, with incoherentcries and supplications following the moving of ignis fatuus lightsahead, she ran, and ran swiftly!--ran over treacherous foundations,ran by yawning gulfs, ran past branching galleries and arches, ranwildly, ran despairingly, ran blindly, and at last ran into thearms of the "Fool of Five Forks."

In an instant she caught at his hand. "Oh, save him!" she cried."You belong here; you know this dreadful place: bring me to him.Tell me where to go, and what to do, I implore you! Quick, he isdying! Come!"

He raised his eyes to hers, and then, with a sudden cry, droppedthe rope and crowbar he was carrying, and reeled against the wall.

"Annie!" he gasped slowly. "Is it you?"

She caught at both his hands, brought her face to his with staringeyes, murmured, "Good God, Cyrus!" and sank upon her knees beforehim.

He tried to disengage the hand that she wrung with passionateentreaty.